


in you everything sank.

by CallicoKitten



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemons, Gen, fucking vikings, idk this is mostly gen, ragnar loves everybody and i ship everybody, with implied relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:51:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallicoKitten/pseuds/CallicoKitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ragnar has a thing for interesting people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in you everything sank.

**Author's Note:**

> this is awful and i apologise.
> 
> written for [ this prompt](http://mockyrfears.livejournal.com/5920.html?thread=842784#t842784)
> 
> title from the song of despair by pablo neruda.

Floki’s daemon is unsettled; Ragnar knows this makes most of the men uncomfortable. 

Helgi flickers through shapes as his (for of _course_ Floki’s daemon is a male) human whoops and laughs and straddles the mast; a raven that soars about the boat, a sea serpent that twists amongst the waves, a fox that dances across the deck. _Shape shifter_ , they whisper, their daemons shifting restlessly. It is said that only the Gods have unsettled daemons and when Gods walk amongst men it is rarely a good sign. 

Ragnar doesn’t listen to their whispers though. Floki is no god. He just _is._ Mad and impossible and free. 

It is cramped on the boat, many of the men have wolves and bears and boars that jostle against each other and gripe and snarl. It makes him grateful for Kolga’s small size. She spends most of her days perched on his shoulder, preening her glossy dark feathers. Raven daemons aren’t uncommon but mostly they are gifted to the wise men, the seers, the ones touched by Odin. A warrior with a raven is odd, Ragnar has seen this in the eyes of his enemies. They think him soft. 

A warrior charging with a wolf at his side is a more intimidating sight, true, but ravens see things groundling daemons can’t. 

“He will drown out there, you know,” Kolga says, her voice soft in his ear.

Ragnar glances at the mast where Floki has lashed himself, laughing with glee as wave after wave crashes over him. His little changeling daemon is a serpent coiled about his neck, red scales glinting in the low light. “And what do you expect me to do about that?”

She stretches her wings lazily. Kolga likes to pretend she has no love for anyone but Bjomolf and on occasion the children’s daemons. “Get him to come down.” She says simply.

“He won’t listen to me.”

If Kolga were a human she would be rolling her eyes, “He _only_ listens to you.” She’s right of course so he gets up and strides across the deck to talk Floki down. It has become a joke amongst the men, Floki obeys Ragnar only Ragnar, so Floki has become – in their minds at least - _Ragnar’s_. And Ragnar knows that Floki and Helgi do not – cannot – belong to anyone (unless they want to of course.)

It takes him a while (almost till night fall) but eventually Floki swings himself back on to the deck, shivering and grinning. Helgi is hare in his arms then a mouse then a scraggly ember coloured cat. The men shudder as his daemon flickers between shapes and Kolga clacks her beak, a warning to them. Ragnar shoves Floki down towards the sleeping mats, one hand firmly clamped on the back of the shipbuilder’s neck. “Sleep now, Floki.” 

Floki complies, curls up on one of the mats and gazes up at Ragnar. It is Helgi who speaks though, “And you, Ragnar, you must sleep too.” He says, a little brown bird on Floki’s chest. 

Ragnar is used to Floki’s odd little daemon who talks to humans more freely than daemons are meant to but the others still aren’t and Ragnar does not miss the look of disgust Rollo and his wolf shoot them.

“Yes, Helgi,” Ragnar says because it is the only way to ensure Floki will actually sleep, “I will sleep too.”

Helgi is a raven and he caws with delight as Ragnar settles down beside the lithe shipbuilder and Floki wraps his limbs around him like an octopus.

_Mine._

So maybe Floki _is_ Ragnar’s. 

Just a little bit.

But Ragnar thinks that probably works both ways.

_____________________

Ragnar fell in love with Lagertha in the heat of battle; her daemon a great white wolf at her side, fur spattered with blood and mud and dirt, jaws dripping and snapping.

_____________________

Athelstan’s daemon is a dove. Later Ragnar will find this ironic when the monk tells him Noah’s Ark. Bjorn and Rollo laugh at the little white bird, delicacy is not something that is valued in their society. It speaks of weakness and in these violent times weakness is a death sentence.

Bjorn’s own daemon settles in his thirteenth summer, a month before Ragnar takes him Kattegat. Magna is a wolf, lithe as his mother’s Bjomolf, dark as his uncle’s Lofn and Bjorn swells with pride. Wolves are strong and loyal and vicious and Ragnar is surrounded by them.

Perhaps it is that that makes Kolga so unusually affectionate to Athelstan’s little bird, it cannot be easy to be the only raven amongst a pack of wolves. During the crossing Kolga watches the little thing cower against her human’s breast almost obsessively, not even breaking to scuffle with Helgi or snap at Lofn. It would be unnerving, Ragnar thinks, were not for the fact that his own fascination matched hers.

For the first few weeks Athelstan spends amongst Ragnar’s family his daemon refuses to leave the monk’s shoulder much to Gyda’s disappointment. The dove is silent; a little pale ghost on her human’s shoulder, cowering whenever anyone gets too close. Athelstan is not so stuttering, not so scared. He holds his head high even when Ragnar forces him to kneel, he is blindly devoted to his God even when Ragnar can see the beginnings of doubts in the monk’s blue eyes and it is so _fascinating_. 

It is a month before Ragnar hears the little dove speak.

Athelstan is teaching Ragnar his language and Ragnar cannot get his mouth to move in the right way. Athelstan is ever patient but Ragnar can see his nerves wearing thin (and perhaps it’s amusing to see the little Englishmen so frustrated) and as Ragnar makes a final aborted attempt at pronunciation the dove heaves a great sigh of annoyance. “It really isn’t that difficult,” she says in a clear voice.

For a moment Athelstan looks horrified (as he did when Helgi sprung up next to him and asked why his head was shaved) and Ragnar smiles. “I’m sorry,” Athelstan stammers, glancing up at his daemon perching in the rafters. 

“It is fine,” Ragnar dismisses. “I’m used to it.”

Athelstan inclines his head and Ragnar looks up at the dove, “And it _is_ difficult, little dove.”

The dove ruffles her feathers, “I have a name.” She murmers, ducking her head.

Ragnar turns to Athelstan expectantly. “Arielle,” he says ruefully as she flutters down to settle on his shoulder.

“And what does that mean?”

At this Athelstan raises his eyes to met Ragnar’s gaze; clear as the cloudless sky, “Lion of God,” says the monk. 

_Beautiful,_ thinks Ragnar.


End file.
